


love me in between the future and the past

by navigator, quitter



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Non AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 13:39:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/979581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/navigator/pseuds/navigator, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quitter/pseuds/quitter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the 2013 VMAs.</p><p>Harry's scared of history repeating itself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	love me in between the future and the past

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: just to be clear, we don't think this happened and we aren't claiming that it did.

He's been off all day.

It's easy to tell, with Harry. Louis knows what he looks like on his best days and knows what he looks like the morning after he had three too many gin and tonics the night before. He knows what he looks like on two hours of sleep, and even on those days he's still not as self-absorbed as he's been since they first saw each other that Sunday morning.

Harry's moods are never really moods, just shifts in his tone, subtle differences in the way he holds himself; the set of his shoulders, a lack of eye contact, much shorter sentences. For the most part, those mood swings come and go with less frequency than everyone else's, because Harry is hands-down the most adaptable person Louis has ever met, except for perhaps Niall. But even Niall lacks that open, eager, bug-eyed quality about him when they're thrown into a hectic situation, the same quality that makes everyone walk straight up to Harry in a crowd. He just seems comfortable. He seems alright, no matter what.

Today is perhaps not the best day for Harry to be in a profoundly strange mood, one that Louis can't get a read on. It's stressing him out, too, making him overcompensate on the laughs and jokes through their pre-show press. The VMAs are no small thing, and they’re reminded of it at every turn, with every celeb sighting that has Louis wondering how they got there.

Next to him, Harry is stiff as a board and unsmiling, and when they're excused from their live interview and herded down the red carpet, Louis hangs back so he can fall into step with Harry.

"Nice knowing we don't have to perform, isn't it?" Louis glances to his right, waiting for Harry to turn and look at him, but he only gets his profile.

"What'd you say?"

To be fair, it's loud. Sort of. There are people screaming around them, and if Harry would just look at him he could practice their mastered art of lip reading, but he won't. Louis clears his throat and repeats himself.

"Just saying, it like, takes off some of the pressure, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," Harry shrugs, touches the front of his hair. "Yeah, I mean. It wasn't that bad last year."

It's unlike him to disagree just for the sake of disagreeing, which is exactly what he's doing, and Louis knows it because they were both close to puking from nerves last year this time. But hey, he thinks, of Harry wants to play contrary, that's fine. It's just unexpected; it makes Louis bristle.

"Everything good?" Louis nudges him in the elbow with his own, and then looks away, careful not to make it too apparent that he's concerned. There are cameras everywhere.

"You've asked me that three times." Harry laughs, but it's mirthless. He meets Louis' eyes and shrugs again. "I told you I'm fine."

If there was time, and they weren't about to go on stage to read from a teleprompter on live television, Louis might have called him out on being the actual worst liar in New York City; possibly the world. He gives him a flat smile, instead, and nods, jogging to catch up with Niall as they’re ushered into the building.

\--

Typically, Harry's clunky, slow method of speech doesn't necessarily inhibit him from eloquence. It's often kind of the opposite, but he takes so long to get to his point that by the time he's finished, a sentence feels like a paragraph and no one realizes he’s said something of importance.

It’s why, when he reaches for the mic to start off their acceptance speech, Louis is relieved, thinking he’ll smash it. He’ll be charming and lovely, he’ll be succinct and perfect.

But instead-- "It means a very much a lot to us," he finishes, and then looks at Louis with a sort of desperate look in his eye as he thrusts the mic toward him.

"What Harry said," Louis grins, looking right at him. Harry bites his lips and cranes his neck. It's jarring to see him that way, wound up tight and with no explanation why, and Louis thinks he might be more agitated than even Harry is at the change.

The show's only another hour long, he thinks, and he can wait until the end to decipher why exactly Harry has been on edge all day. Surely nothing can go too terribly wrong before then.

Except, of course, it does. Louis finds it funny, actually, when Taylor hunches over the mic and makes a reference to Harry. They pan to them, and Harry applauds, and Louis doesn’t, and Niall whispers an I fuckng knew it in his ear as Taylor walks off.

He’s afraid to look when it’s over, but the second there’s a break for commercial, Harry’s out of his seat, gangling down the aisle in the direction of the toilets. Louis bites his lip and Niall shakes his head, a silent suggestion that maybe it’s not the best time to stalk after him. He’s a big boy, after all. He’s dealt with worse criticism. Louis might not have been concerned at all if Harry hadn’t been so weird to start with, but right now all he can think is that Taylor just made it a lot fucking worse.

\--

After a surreal exchange with Lady fucking Gaga, of all people, they're all hanging around backstage and waiting for the go ahead to leave for the after party. The traffic getting back into Manhattan will be mad, so they're trying to leave a little early, although Louis is mostly preoccupied with the slap fight he's currently engaged in with Liam. Harry's in his periphery, because he always is, whether Louis does it on purpose or not. He feels a hand on his shoulder and Liam shouts, triumphant, claiming he's won.

Louis is a few beers shy of drunk, but the two he had during the show made him loose-limbed and relaxed, more confident to look Harry straight in the eye when he pulls him away from the group to talk.

"What's going on?"

"What are we doing?" Harry asks, sounding bored, impatient. It’s so unusual to hear it in his voice that Louis’ concern bypasses his annoyance. "Can we get the party thing over with?"

Which is more than a little strange, because Harry is always up for a night out. The majority of the time, he's prepared to say yes to anyone who ever asks him to do anything, much to the annoyance of Louis, who has long since accepted that he'll be in bed sooner than Harry on most nights.

At the risk of sounding like a broken record, Louis doesn't ask him what's wrong, but tamping down the urge to ask makes him frustrated, instead. They crowd closer together to make room for a string of people exiting behind them.

"We're leaving in a minute, pal," he says, looking Harry up and down. There's a line drawn between his eyebrows and he's staring down at his phone, the white-blue screen giving his face a strange cast. "Why don't you just not go? Just go back to the hotel if you're feeling like…if you're going to be like this."

He tries his best not to sound accusatory, attempts to sound understanding even though he hasn't got a fucking clue what's wrong with him. Louis doesn’t really let other peoples’ moods effect him, but Harry’s are usually fixable, and tonight they aren’t. It’s making him feel insane.

"I'm not just going to not go, Louis," Harry says, as though his suggestion is offensive.

"Yeah, that was a pretty stupid suggestion, wasn't it?" Louis rolls his eyes. "You're right." 

Harry coughs into his hand, pretends not to hear him, and finishes typing, locks his phone and then finally looks up to meet Louis' eyes. There's nothing there; he's unreadable for the first time in ages, and it's terrifying. Louis waits, hoping he'll offer an explanation, but it doesn't come.

"Honestly, I just feel like I'm probably going to ruin your night, so it's fine if you wanna go with Liam, or something. We'll see each other there."

"Uh, actually--" Louis starts, prepared to fight him on that, but he's cut off before he can even explain.

"Hey, mate." Ed nudges Louis in the arm.

Louis does what Harry's been failing to do all night -- pretends everything is alright, and greets him with a smile. "Alright?"

"Yeah, good, good. You ready, Harry?" Ed turns to him and Harry stuffs his phone in his pocket, jerking his head toward the exit. Ed spins round to Louis again, expectant, oblivious. "Coming, Louis?"

"Told Liam I'd wait for him," Louis says, looking right at Harry. "See you there, though."

And Harry leaves without a glance back in Louis' direction, and his previous concern has now been completely replaced by an obstinate annoyance that not only is Harry being unreasonable with Louis -- which would be fine, honestly, Louis can deal with that -- but he's being unfair to the rest of the band, to their team, to the people who worked hard for them to be there that night. It's disrespectful, he thinks, to leave with Ed.

"Fuck it," he mutters to himself. "You ready to go, boys?"

-

Louis really doesn’t want his entire night to become about this weird thing, this imbalance between he and Harry. He doesn’t want to assume that he’s to blame for it, and he doesn’t know why it would be, considering the last few weeks have been uneventful; busy, but without issue as far as the two of them went. Things were great in London, and even though they worked the whole time they were home, there was still this sense of being grounded there. Being able to go sleep in his own bed after the premiere was a luxury none of them were afforded in any other part of the world. It was nice, with Harry. He thinks back to the days leading up to the VMAs, and nothing, absolutely nothing stands out as strange.

Maybe it’s jetlag, he thinks, his forehead pressed up against the glass on their drive into Manhattan. His phone is out on his lap with the screen facing up, and he’s expectant the whole way there. Through forty minutes of traffic, there’s still nothing from Harry, no apology or explanation or string of emojis or terrible puns.

He spends the last ten minutes of the drive trying to convince Zayn to come to the party. It doesn’t work.

It’s he and Niall and Liam, then, being corralled together and taken inside of the club room, which is actually attached to a hotel. It’s all very posh, a little more refined than the flat-out party atmosphere at the London premiere, but Louis doesn’t feel much like partying, anyway. His eyes flit around the room the second he walks in, searching out Harry’s figure in every dark corner.

“Is that Taylor?” Niall laughs, his eyes going squinty. There are times Louis is great at hiding disdain on his face, but he’s just never been able to do that around Taylor, ever. He’s already had to do it once tonight, with a camera in his face, no less, but he doesn’t even try this time. He follows Niall’s gaze and rolls his eyes, taking a long drink from his beer bottle and hoping desperately it stops his thudding heart. He can hear it in his ears, though, and it’s drowning out the music.

They’re posing for a photo, he realizes. Ed’s there, and someone else, and Harry and Taylor on opposite ends. It isn’t jealousy he feels; he’s not jealous of Taylor, not anymore -- that was a low point -- but he does feel resentment toward her, no matter how unwarranted it could be. It’s easier to pin Harry’s mood on someone else rather than himself, and it seems like a decent explanation, which is all he’s really seeking, at this point.

The room seems to fill up in a matter of seconds, in the time it takes for Louis to order his second beer in less than ten minutes because sobriety is useless in this particular situation. His boyfriend is being photographed with his ex-girlfriend on the other side of the room, Niall is laughing, and then Harry and Ed are walking toward him just as Louis tries to excuse himself.

Ed heads to the bar, and Harry stops in front of Louis, making eyes at every person besides him.

“Having fun with Ed, then?” Louis stares at Harry’s jaw, which is clenching as he chews on his bottom lip. Good. He hopes he feels spectacularly uncomfortable. The other stuff, earlier -- that wasn’t his fault. This, though, this mood, his decision to go to an event that is by no means necessary, his decision to refuse to say no to anything, that all feels like Harry’s fault. Louis is feeling unforgiving, and he’s hurt, and he’s confused and he feels foolish. And he hates feeling foolish.

“Really just an all-around great night, isn’t it?” Sarcasm is ugly on Harry, at least this kind -- bitter and droll, without a hint of actual humor. Louis takes another drink and feels anger bubble up in his chest, making him dizzy, giving him a head rush.

“Yeah, remember the part where we won a fucking VMA? That was good, wasn’t it?” He stares at him until Harry looks back. “What the fuck is wrong with you?”

In that moment, the music swells so loud it’s hard to think straight, and he and Harry both move instinctively closer, if only to better hear each other as they prepare to have an argument in public. Louis hates the thought of doing that and can’t actually believe Harry has brought him to this point, but he can’t stop now.

“Can you just...not do that right now, please?” Harry pleas, low, almost too quiet to hear. The forced calm in his voice makes Louis even more agitated, because it’s not fair, how he can keep his cool, how he makes Louis feel like he’s blowing up for caring.

“Fuck that,” Louis shakes his head, ready to keep it up, but Harry cuts him off--

“Look, I’ll be fine. I don’t want to talk about it now.”

Before Louis can answer, the DJ shouts into the mic, something unintelligible that makes people scream in response. In that moment, Harry doesn’t break eye contact for the first time in what feels like ages. It’s more intense than Louis was prepared for, and he’s breathing hard, just waiting for the noise to quit so they can talk again.

Harry swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “You know what, I don’t want to be here,” he shakes his head, “can we--”

And that’s when he’s cut off, to Louis’ surprise, by a girl -- a woman -- taller than Louis and leggy and blonde and a spitting image of Harry’s preferred woman, if Louis had to pinpoint it. He can’t hear their exchange because her pretty blonde ponytail is brushing Louis in the nose. He takes a few steps back and bumps into someone’s shoulder, and after he turns around to mutter an apology, Harry and the girl are gone, en route to the dance floor.

Louis is so surprised that he can’t even move.

“‘s going on with Harry?” Niall bumps Louis in the ribs. “D’you want another drink? I’m getting one.”

“No, I’ve got two here,” Louis says, attempting a smirk. “He’s just being a dick.”

It feels good to down the last of his drink; it feels right, like, yeah, that might actually help him figure out how he should feel about the way a girl is speaking with her mouth practically attached to Harry’s ear. Louis tears his eyes away for a minute, grateful for Niall’s ability to distract him without asking him what’s wrong, especially when he knows Louis won’t want to answer. He’s good at that.

But when Louis looks back to the dancefloor, the girl’s twisting her fingers in the curls at the back of Harry’s neck, and Harry isn’t stopping her.

The club room is so full of people and Louis feels like he’s inhaled nothing but aftershaves and perfumes for the last twenty minutes, like he’s being choked by them. He finds Liam engaged in a deep and seemingly boring conversation with a television presenter Louis recognizes but doesn’t know by name. He stands by them, but it’s a front to just keep an eye on Harry.

Louis doesn’t really get jealous, usually. Not with Harry, even though he sometimes feels like he ought to. It’s just that, like, with Harry, of course everyone loves him, and of course they want to flirt with him. He’s witnessed Harry make grown men bristle at his impressive dedication to eye contact and his inability to keep his hands to himself. He latches onto everyone, makes them think he’s into them, but at the end of the day, he and Louis belong to each other. They belong with each other.

These sorts of misunderstandings are a rarity. Harry tells Louis things, and Louis helps him, and it’s so satisfying, the way Harry listens and wants and is receptive to Louis’ advice. He comes to him when he’s at his best and at his worst and everywhere in between.

It’s why this is so fucked up, all of it. It’s why he can’t listen to a word Liam’s saying when he knows he and Harry aren’t okay. And the difference in his behavior is enough to make Louis fight for it, to make him want to fix it for his own sake as much as Harry’s.

He finishes his drink. The song changes, and Louis loses sight of Harry when more people crowd onto the dance floor, holding their glasses up around their shoulders to lean in and whisper close to each other, exchanging numbers with their phones out and taking pictures and feeling each other up and who the fuck knows what else.

Louis shoulders his way through the crowd. Harry’s hard to miss, with his hair and his posture and the sea of people standing around him and looking directly at him as he pretends not to notice.

He doesn’t see Louis, though. He doesn’t even look like he’s having fun; he’s just bobbing, drunk, his glass mostly ice when he sips from it every few seconds.

When he’s close enough, he reaches out and grabs Harry by the bicep, hard, harder than he means to, the grip tight enough to leave an accidental bruise when he yanks. Harry spins around immediately, his face screwed up in annoyance. “What the fuck?”

“Let’s go, got to talk to you,” Louis says flatly, and gives Harry’s arm another tug. “C’mon.”

Harry doesn’t look disappointed, per se, about being hauled away from the girl he’d just been moving his body up against. Louis knows that it’s not like he has any real interest or attachment to her and he doesn’t genuinely think Harry ever had any intention of letting anything happen.

Or, fuck. Maybe he did. Nothing would surprise him now, not after the day he’s had.

It’s not like anything he’s done over the past few hours has made any sense at all. It’s been like dealing with a totally different person, not someone that he knows well enough to finish his sentences and figure out the punchlines to all his bad jokes.

The very thought makes him hot under the weight of all the jealousy and anger that’s been building up in him throughout the night. Harry looks angry, too, though, and that just pisses Louis off more because he just doesn’t know what it is that’s going on in his head. He’s been nothing but patient and still Harry isn’t giving anything back. 

“Suppose it couldn’t wait, then?” There’s an unfamiliar, challenging tone to Harry’s voice and Louis hates it, hates the fact that he doesn’t sound at all like himself. Harry’s usually so patient and accommodating and he doesn’t feel equipped to deal with the fact that he’s directing the exact opposite at him.

They’re both drunker than the last time they were in each other’s sights, and trying to have a conversation while they’re both worked up and fucked off too many cocktails doesn’t seem like the best option, but Louis can’t keep waiting. He’s maxed out on watching Harry self-destruct for what seems like no reason at all and he just wants to know what’s going on inside his head.

Louis just gives him a look, like, of course it can’t fucking wait. He’s still got a tight hold on Harry’s arm and Harry matches the grip, curving his palm around his shoulder and shoving him back, hard, until he starts walking forward. 

“Let’s go.”

The party is still going strong around them as they push their way through the crowd. Louis knows, logically, that everyone is having a good time. Drinks are flowing, people are laughing, still running on high from their wins or just the night itself. From his end, it’s absolutely rubbish. He can’t think of a worse party that he’s been to since he was fifteen and Stan faked a birthday to get everyone to bring presents and liquor to his mum’s place.

Security intercepts them before they make it to the back door and Louis’ grateful for the fact that there’s someone between them, leading them both along, because he feels so resentful of Harry that he wants to prolong speaking to him as long as he possibly can.

He’s not at all prepared to be left alone with him and when they’re shuffled into the back of a car, he makes a point to sit far from Harry in the backseat, practically curling his body against the door just to be able to avoid looking at him on the opposite end. 

It’s so easy for Louis to sense him, though, and he can smell his cologne and the stupid appletini he’d picked to drink, and he knows he’s staring when Louis leans his forehead onto the cool glass window while he replays the last hour on repeat in his head.

Louis finally just breaks. “What the fuck was that, mate?”

He’d thought it had been bad having to watch Harry spend the entire day brushing off things and people that he usually loved, but dancing shamelessly with a total stranger who probably just wanted to tweet that she’d got her hands on the Harry Styles was too much. She’d been all over his boyfriend, right under his nose, and Harry hadn’t done a thing to stop it from happening. 

Harry’s turns away and he’s either not going to answer or he’s taking his time figuring out what to say. Louis is just a shade too drunk to quit while he’s ahead. “Whatever shit you’re going through, bro, don’t fucking take it out on me.”

“Don’t call me bro,” Harry mumbles automatically, his face still turned away from Louis. That, of all things, was not what Louis expected Harry to latch onto. “I’m not your bro, alright, I’m your--” But he stops, and he looks at Louis, expecting him to fill in the blanks himself.

“D’you know what?” The car stops, and Louis reaches for the door handle, swinging it open. “You don’t even have to come in, alright? Do whatever you want, go back to the party, pull a girl, I don’t care.”

He slams the door hard and stalks toward the entrance to the hotel, ignoring the guard who asks him if he’s alone. The bright lights in the lobby exacerbate how actually drunk he is, making his head spin so hard that he nearly stumbles just pressing the button to the lift. He’s so angry, more pissed off than he’s been in a long time, and the last time he felt this way it was definitely not directed at Harry.

When he steps into the lift, a hand catches him on the shoulder.

“Louis, wait--” Harry grabs his forearm and Louis yanks it back, spinning around to turn face him. He looks even more fucked up under the harsh fluorescent lights than he had at the party, and there’s a hint of desperation to him, now, that makes Louis feel sickly triumphant. “Would you just stop and listen to me?”

“What?” he spits, punching the number 6 until it lights up. He folds his arms across his chest, expectant, swaying on his feet and feeling his patience wearing thinner with every second that Harry stalls.

“You wanted to know what was going on?” Harry levels his eyes with Louis’, and shrugs, licks his lips, pausing for three seconds longer than Louis has the tolerance for in this particular moment, and then continues.

“Nothing,” he mutters, and flings his arms out to the side as he shrugs. “Just doing what everyone expects me to do, anyway.”

“What are you going on about?” Louis asks, his eyes squinting. Now is not really the time for Harry to be cryptic, he thinks. The elevator doors chime open, and he steps out first. “I don’t think it’s too much of me to expect for you to pretend to be excited when we win a fucking award, Harry.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry mutters, his voice quiet. Louis unlocks his door, and Harry doesn’t continue until it clicks shut behind them. Louis leans his back against it, his arms folded across his chest, and Harry sits down on the edge of the bed.

“Go on.”

Harry sighs, and he starts moving his hands in circles, something he does when he’s trying to think of the best way to answer a question he really doesn’t want to answer. Louis has seen him do it a thousand times, but it’s almost never directed at him.

“I mean, like, you were right. I was taking things out on you when I shouldn’t have.”

“I know you were,” Louis says, like Harry just pointed out the most obvious aspect of the whole night, and he’s fed up. “Thanks for the confirmation.”

Harry looks away. He’s biting his bottom lip so hard that Louis knows it has to hurt, and his knee won’t stop bouncing, and on any other night Louis would’ve gone over and fixed him, or tried his best, but he just stares. They’re both silent for so long that when Harry speaks again, Louis thinks for sure he’s going to excuse himself.

“What if,” Harry starts, but his voice breaks, and he clears his throat and tries again. “What if I can’t do this?”

Fuck. Louis’ heart races immediately, preemptively. It’s suddenly very, painfully quiet in the room. “What?”

“I know what people think of me,” he continues, but despite his words, he still sounds unsure of himself. He stops chewing the inside of his lip when he looks at Louis again, his eyes wide. “What if they’re right?”

“Harry.” Louis shakes his head, and palms his face with both hands, letting them fall slowly down until they reach his neck. It breaks his heart, in spite of everything. He hates it, that Harry thinks he knows what people say about him, and that it’s anything other than positive. He wants to go into the thousand reasons why it doesn’t matter what people think, why it shouldn’t matter at all to Harry, but before he can even begin to explain, he needs to know more. He feels slightly defensive, now, and he has half a mind to go back to that party and give a piece of his mind to whoever made Harry feel like this, but it has to wait.

“You have tell me what happened,” he says, finally. “Just tell me.”

“What’s it matter anyway?” Harry shrugs, and his tone is more defiant than it had been a minute ago.

“It matters because you’ve been a fucking prick all day, and I’ve had to put up with it and make excuses for you to everyone.” 

The room is silent for a moment. Harry tilts his head and considers Louis. Then he laughs, a bitter sound. “Sure it has nothing to do with those girls?” 

It’s such an incredulous accusation that Louis falters, too dumbfounded to start a spiel about how everything had gone to hell long before the party, and being subjected to watching random blonde #2 trail her hands down his boyfriend’s back was just icing on the cake.

The thing is, Harry knows. Of course Louis’ jealous, but it’s also far from what the issue is.

“Fuck off, Harry.”

“No,” he returns, his voice low. “Saw the way you looked at me when you pulled me away. It was driving you mental to watch me with someone else.”

And Harry’s terrible for throwing it in his face, but the fact that there’s truth to what he’s saying and he’s so blatantly being called out for it is frustrating and embarrassing. Jealousy is nothing new for either of them, but it’s never been brought up like this before, never maliciously. 

They’d been vaguely looking in each other’s direction as they cut remarks back and forth, but Louis can’t keep his eyes on Harry when things are like this; not when they’re directed at him. He turns his back to him, pretending to fiddle with the coffee pot, refusing to even dignify what he said with an answer.

A moment passes before he hears steps behind him, though, and he feels Harry’s warm breath on the back of his neck before he even says anything.

“Why do you even care?” 

“I don’t fucking care,” Louis grits out, lying. He turns around again to find himself unable to suppress a choked off gasp when he ends up against Harry’s chest. His instinct is to take a step back, but Harry catches him by the forearms and holds so tight that he can’t go anywhere.

“How jealous did it make you?” Harry asks, so quiet his voice has turned gravelly. “Hate seeing me with someone else, don’t you? Did you think I was going to go home with her?” 

Harry only stops when Louis reaches up, getting his fingers around Harry’s wrists until he can shove his arms away. So much of him wants to say yes, yes, he goes mad when anyone gets too close -- when anyone fits into the place that’s finally become his after years of them fucking around, putting each other through hell. Harry’s his and he wants to keep him that way, wants to be as selfish with him as he can possibly get away with. 

“As if you’re not exactly the same,” he says, breathless. “Forget how you acted when that lad bought me a drink last week?” Louis feels lame trying to justify his own jealousy by bringing up the fact that he’s not alone in it, but it’s all he has. 

He’s expecting some sort of denial or a brand new attack, but Harry stays quiet, suddenly more concerned with fixing his arms around Louis’ waist and trying to draw him against his chest. Louis’ wants to resist, but even the way he flattens his hands out over Harry’s chest feels like an invitation, and Harry presses his face into the hollow of his neck and sets warm kisses there.

“What are you doing?” Louis breathes, pushing Harry’s body back by the waist, putting a bit of distance between them but doing nothing to keep Harry’s lips from continuing. It feels good, and his skin feels hot under the attention, and it’s exactly how he wanted to spend the night until Harry had ruined it. 

“Please,” Harry murmurs, squeezing in points up his body -- his waist, the swell of his ribs, his biceps, cradling around his neck. “Louis.”

“Please what,” Louis manages, barely. He knows, but he’s not about to give in.

“Just let me,” Harry starts, tucking his thumb up under Louis’ jaw, “I want--”

The touches are so distracting that he doesn’t notice that they’ve been backing up, only becoming aware that they’re not still standing in place when Harry pushes him hard against dresser, making him collide with it.

“This isn’t going to fix anything,” Louis mutters, and a second later Harry’s mouth covers his, as though trying to remind him, trying to prove a point that this does, in fact, fix things for them. It always has, even when they hadn’t been able to say a word about feelings, when they had no right to be jealous of each other, this was always the quickest fix. It might be momentary, but it’s like nothing else, and Louis loses himself in it almost immediately. 

He kisses him back, tastes the remnants of artificial apple flavoring and licks into his mouth to chase it. Harry whines against his lips and hitches him up by the thigh until Louis is half-sitting on the dresser, and they kiss wildly, messily, tugging at each others’ clothes until Harry’s shirt is untucked and the button of Louis’ jeans is popped open.

Harry grunts, getting his whole hand inside of his fly before the zipper’s even down, and the stretch makes the waistband of Louis’ jeans dig into his hips. It ought to hurt, he ought to be drawing away from it, but Harry’s hand has him completely hard within seconds. He squeezes and breaks the kiss to look at Louis, raising his eyebrows. “Yeah?” he whispers, a rasp, barely a word, but Louis hears the question in it.

“No,” he grunts, rocking his hips forward in a clear indication that his answer is actually, in fact, yes, yeah, yes yes yes.

What he gets in return is close to a laugh, and Louis’ heart races because Harry looks determined when he leans in to kiss down the side of his throat, using his fumbling hands to tug down his jeans until they’re over Louis’ hips, down around his thighs. The table is cold on his skin, but Harry’s warm hands are right there, kneading his ass and squeezing the meatiest part of his thigh, then doing the same on the inside, close but not close enough to what Louis wants.

“What’re you doing, Harry?” Louis demands, more impatient than he might risk being on any given night. Harry stops kissing the side of his neck long enough to pull back, brushing his fingers too softly over the cotton of his briefs.

“Making you want it.”

Louis gulps, and Harry has to know that that was it, that was what made him want it, hearing him say it like that, but he plays it off. “Try harder.”

“D’you reckon?” Harry asks, still instigating him, so frustrating, so annoying that Louis wants to push him off, but he stays still as Harry pushes his fingers up the inside of his briefs, bypassing his cock to press bluntly against his hole, not with any real intent, it seems, just teasing, then pressing hard, summoning a noise out of Louis that he regrets as soon as he makes it.

He can feel Harry grin against the skin of his neck. “I thought so.”

“Shut up.” Louis balls Harry’s shirt up in his hands, pulling so hard he thinks he might pop a button off, but it’s a sin that it’s still on, anyway, that the expanse of Harry’s chest isn’t there for Louis to scratch and cling to. He starts working the buttons, and decides, halfway through, that Harry doesn’t really deserve that tonight, and every time he thinks about touching him, he holds back, picturing that girl’s fingers twisting up in the nape of his neck.

His boxers are off in seconds and Harry pumps his cock slow, focusing on the head, trying to draw out little beads of pre-come that he thumbs off and licks obscenely, putting his entire thumb in his mouth and waiting for a reaction out of Louis. “Wanted this,” he murmurs, ducking down to take Louis’ cock in his mouth, and Louis can’t help it, finally -- he balls his fist into Harry’s hair and pushes down, waiting for the telltale gag.

“All night?” he asks, and Harry looks up, bent awkwardly, still standing while Louis sits on top of the table, his hands braced on either side of Louis’ thighs. “You didn’t want one of those girls to do this to you, then?”

Harry pulls off, sucks saliva and pre-come back into his throat and swallows, shaking his head. His mouth is red and shiny and gorgeous, Louis thinks, and he has to bite his lip to keep from saying so.

“I didn’t, actually,” Harry says, his tone reasonable but his voice rough. There’s something about the way he says it that makes Louis want to ask him, again, what was the matter with him all day, but Harry fills his mouth with Louis’ cock a second later, licking the underside with a pointed tongue and then lapping at the head, making Louis’ cock twitch.

It would be wonderful, he thinks, if he could just come right then, surprise Harry with it, but at the same moment Harry seems to realize that he’s close and pulls away, coming up to lick into Louis’ mouth to let him get a taste of himself. The kiss is seconds away from becoming tender, so Louis pins Harry’s bottom lip between his teeth, fearful of letting him think he’s getting away with anything here.

Harry gives in first, wincing and pulling away after Louis makes his lip swell up from biting it so hard. “Fine, alright,” he mutters, stroking Louis idly, using pre-come to keep him wet and slippery in the heat of his palm. “Gonna let me--?”

“Let you what?” Louis bucks his hips up.

“Louis,” Harry whispers, “C’mon.”

“Fuck me? Is that what--”

But he’s cut off, tugged down until his feet hit the floor, and then he’s spun around so fast he can’t do much more than make a few accidental noises as Harry presses him against the dresser. Louis places his palms onto it to steady himself, trying to breathe as Harry presses his chest up against Louis’ back and hooks his forearm over his collarbones.

“You feel good,” he says against Louis’ ear, and he sounds like he’s marveling, like he’s surprised. “Should’ve done this hours ago.”

“You were a little too busy being a shit, I think,” Louis gets out, presses back against Harry’s cock, obvious and impatient in his attempts to make him just get on with it. Harry doesn’t answer, but he does walk away, and a glance over Louis’ shoulder shows Harry bent double, rooting through the luggage for a small bottle. Louis turns around again, hangs his head so low his chin reaches his chest, and he breathes. He feels dizzy, and angry, and still at the mercy of Harry, which is the most frustrating part -- feeling like he’s lost the upper hand, even the smallest bit.

He doesn’t hear the flick of the cap over the sound of his heart pounding in his ears, and then Harry’s cool fingers are dragging down from his lower back and dipping down, blunt and slick and making Louis ache when he presses in. They go from nothing to everything in seconds, Harry pushing Louis closer into the table and spreading out his fingers wide as he dips one inside of him, deep enough to make Louis whine when he crooks his finger.

“Arch your back for me,” Harry says, and Louis hates that he does it without thinking, hates that Harry can read his thoughts even when they’re at their worst. “Good,” he whispers, “So fucking hot.”

“Just,” Louis grunts, refusing to accept that compliment, “C’mon.”

“Have to get you ready, don’t I?” Harry murmurs, leaning in close to Louis’ ear. He presses his ring finger in alongside his middle, pushing them all the way up to the second knuckle. “Be a good boy for me.”

Louis’ not certain whether it’s the way Harry’s voice sounds telling him to be good or how his fingers curl up toward his pubic bone, hitting his prostate with maddening precision while his other hand comes around to the front of his body and pushes down at the lowest point of his belly, but he swears he almost comes right then. He feels like he’s being overstimulated, like his body is being too worked over, and he’s almost past the point of being embarrassed about what Harry has reduced him to because he wants it so badly that it doesn’t seem to matter how angry he is or how hard he’s tried to hold onto his pride. It’s like an itch that he can’t scratch and even when Harry’s a prick, even when Louis doesn’t want to be near him, he needs to be. 

Harry eases his fingers out and Louis thinks, briefly, that maybe he’s finally going to stop pissing around and fuck him. The rough pads of Harry’s fingers find his hole again almost immediately, though -- three this time, stretching his rim wide around the thickest part of them as he focuses his attention right back on that same spot. It’s too much and he feels like he’s being milked, like Harry might make him come before his brain even catches up with his body. 

Harry makes him feel that way a lot, actually, like there are two dueling sides to himself that he’s single-handedly waged a war on. He felt that way when he was nineteen and he had to close himself off in his room to wank while his best mate was fucking some girl in his own, and he feels it now, while he’s so angry at Harry for never making sense and yet he still wants him this much, loves him a silly amount, all of it. 

The sound that escapes Louis’ lips is broken, more like a sob, as he pushes his ass back into the steady rhythm that Harry’s fucking him in, getting him so properly stretched that he’s actually dreading the series of seconds between when Harry will slip out his fingers and replace them with his dick.

“Harry, come on,” he whines, passing a look over his shoulder, though Harry’s features are all obscured by his blurred vision and the fact that he can’t seem to focus on anything apart from the nerve endings in his body being so well manipulated and the heaviness of Harry formed against his back. “Stop overcompensating.”

“M’not,” Harry laughs, the sound coming out more like an exasperated breath. “Just like fingering you.” 

“Well, I like your cock. Don’t be selfish,” Louis manages, taking another step apart so that that his legs are spread out even more. He lies the front of his body down as flat as he can against the dresser, rocking back on Harry’s fingers and clenching around them when Harry holds his hand steady, like an invitation.

Louis doesn’t even have to look back to know that Harry’s watching him fuck himself on his hand and he doesn’t need Harry to tell him that he’s thinking about what it will feel like when it’s his cock that’s being held in as tight as Louis is keeping his fingers. 

“I’ll fuck you now, if you like,” Harry murmurs, kissing over the ball of his spine as he finally, finally slides his fingers free and drags them in a wet trail to Louis’ hip instead, holding him there. 

“Mighty generous of you,” Louis cuts out, rolling his eyes and looking back at Harry, agitated. He’s not expecting it when Harry looks back at him, and the stare somehow makes him feel more bashful, more exposed than the fact that all of his body is on display and he’s turned himself over for Harry to do as he pleases with.

There’s no joke and no banter -- Harry goes quiet all at once, only holding the look for another flimsy few seconds before lowering his eyes to the small of Louis’ back. 

Louis can’t see much, can barely see low enough between them to make out what’s happening, but he can see Harry’s arm moving as he wraps his long fingers around his own dick and shifts even closer so that he can slide it along the cleft of his ass. It catches over Louis’ hole on the second run down, and he feels too hot and too wet from lube and precome to physically withstand being teased any longer. 

Harry seems to get it; he just holds himself steady when he finally starts to push the head in, only quickly pausing to let Louis adjust before easing in the rest of the way in one long thrust. They both puff out a breath at the same time, Louis’ eyes squinting shut and Harry rumbling low in his chest before he mutters something about how good it feels. Every hair on Louis’ body is standing on end, and he feels a chill roll down his spine when Harry draws out and thrusts in again.

This won’t last long, which is fine. Harry’s rhythm isn’t there, and Louis is pushing back on him messily, circling his hips to make Harry gasp and biting down on his own forearm to keep from giving Harry the satisfaction of hearing him cry out.

“Feel good?” Harry asks, voice low as he grabs a handful of Louis’ ass in his palm and squeezes hard.

Louis gasps at the slight sting, but keeps his voice surprisingly even. “What d’you think?”

He can feel Harry’s thrusts stutter as he huffs out a laugh. “Just thought you might want to tell me.”

“I didn’t,” Louis returns, and he does cry out after that, because Harry likely predicted he’d give him a hard time and pushes him down by the center of the back, raising Louis’ hips up with both hands so he can fuck into him at a relentless pace. “Ah, fuck,” Louis whispers, flattening his palms on the table. “Jesus, you’re--”

He doesn’t even know how to finish that sentence, and doesn’t try when Harry folds his body over Louis’ back and hooks his chin over Louis’ shoulder. “Gonna come for me?”

Louis swallows hard, feeling used-up and wound tight and so on edge he might explode. “Not for you,” he whispers, shaking his head.

“For me, though,” Harry repeats, “You know it’s for me. Love when I get you like this.”

The way Harry takes ownership of it, of this feeling, of what he can do to Louis, is just -- it’s so frustrating and accurate and also incredibly sexy, and Louis doesn’t want to give into it. After a day of putting up with Harry at his worst, he wishes he could hold onto that grudge a little longer -- without anyone else, he could -- but Louis loosens up and then sort of gives up, drops his forehead against the table, just letting Harry take him in the way that, yeah, only Harry can.

“I’ve got you,” Harry mumbles, right up against Louis’ ear, kissing him just below it. He thrusts in hard, making Louis’ torso the edge of the table, and he’ll have a red line under his chest when they’re through, but he doesn’t notice the pain at all just then. He feels sort of high and so good, the best he’s felt all day, and it’s backwards that both the high and low points of his day can be attributed to Harry, but there’s some kind of balancing act at work that Louis can’t bring himself to question.

Harry takes Louis’ cock in his hand, strokes him slow once, and then another time. “I’m,” Louis starts, arches his back and pushes back on Harry’s dick. “Fuck, keep going--”

And Harry, thankfully, doesn’t want to give Louis quite the hard time that Louis gave him, because he reacts immediately, using Louis’ precome to wank him quick, focusing on the head and thumbing just beneath it until Louis starts to shudder and whine.

“Yes,” Harry encourages, pumping and squeezing as Louis chases that feeling, the one that makes his stomach clench. “Fuck, you’re so hot like this, Louis, love the way you take it--”

He says something else, maybe, offers a compliment that might very well be the best Louis’ ever gotten -- but he’ll never know, not when he whites out, his body shaking as his orgasm hits him so hard he feels it shock every part of his body. He jerks into Harry’s fist, clenches around his dick, and is still trying to catch his breath when he feels hot and full, suddenly, Harry slamming into him as he comes, too, and Louis is boneless and breathless and covered in goosebumps by the time he’s through.

When Harry pulls out, Louis’ knees nearly buckle. He pushes himself up, slow, and the room seems so quiet now that they’ve both come down. Harry takes three steps backwards and sits on the edge of the bed, then falls onto his back with both arms flung out to the side.

“Come over here,” he beckons in a quiet voice, but Louis doesn’t spare him a glance when he walks to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him.

It should’ve made him feel closer to Harry, and he should feel like they’ve fixed everything, but Louis isn’t quite warm and fuzzy just yet. He bends over and splashes his face with cool water, and then cleans himself up, leaving the bathroom far messier than it has any right to be considering he’s only used it for two minutes.

He opens the door, and Harry rolls his head to the side, still naked and idly touching himself, the insides of his thighs. Louis swallows hard, keeps his eyes on his face. “Right.”

“Right,” Harry repeats. “What?”

Louis bends over to pick up two pairs of briefs on his way to the bed, and chucks Harry’s at him before he puts on his own.

“How do you feel?” Louis asks, once he’s semi-clothed.

“Like I want to sleep for two days,” Harry mumbles, tugging up his pants the rest of the way. “Come over here,” he says again. “I’m cold.”

It’s all very tempting, and Louis almost just gives in, but he won’t be able to sleep if he doesn’t ask, and he really doesn’t want this all to stretch over into the next day. Harry seems set on ignoring the topic at hand, but he has to know Louis isn’t prepared to let him get away with that.

Harry sits up on his elbows when Louis walks over to the edge of the bed, standing in front of Harry’s knees. “Tell me,” Louis says.

“Tell you what?”

Louis knocks him with his own knee. “About today. Tell me.”

There’s a beat, and for the first time all night, Louis is actually afraid of what he’s about to hear. Harry clears his throat.

“Paige thinks I led her on,” he says, his voice low. Louis’ eyebrows shoot up, and he immediately wants to ask why, but he waits for Harry to finish. “I didn’t try to...y’know, I didn’t think that I was doing anything that would make her think that, really. And Taylor, she’s just…”

Louis head spins, because Taylor is less of a surprise, but Paige -- he didn’t expect Paige. He nods, swallows hard, tries not to interrupt, because he knows Harry well enough to know from experience that getting him off track while he’s been drinking is ill-advised.

Harry sits up, and Louis takes a step back, watching him closely. “Go on.”

“Taylor’s just, like, really angry. And I don’t blame her,” Harry shrugs, massages the upper part of his bicep as he stares into space. “I was supposed to be in it with her, you know, but she could always tell I was somewhere else. How could she not?” Harry looks up at Louis, then, his eyes wide but still somewhat guarded. “I was fucking you and then sleeping next to her.”

It hits Louis hard, and he feels like he has a physical reaction to it. He bites the inside of his cheek and looks away from Harry’s eyes, trying to bat down the guilt he feels rising up when he thinks about those few months. “But it’s been a year.”

“Doesn’t matter that it’s been a year. I basically ran away from it without giving her any answers. It’s not like she knows that it was because of someone else.” Harry swallows hard, and Louis waits for him to continue. “What if I end up hurting you, too?”

“Harry--”

“No, look at all the times I already have done.” Harry looks hard at Louis, and he can’t look away, not when his eyes are so intense and unblinking and earnest. He shakes his head, says in a quiet voice, “I’m really scared of that.”

He looks so shaken, so genuinely scared, that Louis can feel himself crumpling, immediately going into protect-mode rather than just hearing him out. There’s so much residual anger from earlier in the day, and combined with how heartbroken he feels when he thinks about Harry, when he thinks about Harry being afraid of hurting him, it’s just difficult to hold onto it. 

“When have you hurt me, though? When have you hurt me when it wasn’t partially my fault, at least?”

"How has any of it ever been your fault, Louis?” Harry pauses, but not long enough to give Louis a window to answer. “It’s almost always been me fucking up. Like, you're so much more considerate in relationships, and you think about when you should call, and if I’ll worry if you don’t, stuff like that.”

Harry almost seems defeated, but Louis is so surprised by what he’s saying, by these latent fears that have clearly been plaguing him, that he’s not even sure where to begin. Worse than hearing that he felt this way is hearing Harry put himself down again and again, and he feels like he’s dreaming, waiting for him to continue talking.

“This is the most committed relationship I’ve been in, ever. If I wasn't with you, I’d date or hook up with whoever I wanted, however often I wanted, and it wouldn't matter so much to me that everyone thinks that's the only thing I want, because they'd probably be right. But I am with you and it does bother me because it messes with my head. It’s like I start to believe it," Harry confesses, licking over his lips and swallowing thickly around the lump in his throat. Louis isn’t breathing. "You're the last person who ever deserves to have your heart broken."

Harry’s eyes are glassy and his cheeks are red and Louis is terrified, for the first time, that he really believes what he’s saying -- that Harry really, truly believes he’s going to fuck things up with Louis. The thought hits him all at once, and he something rises in his chest, something scary and heavy that makes him feel like something is crushing his sternum.

“You’'re serious?" Louis’ voice is a dry rasp, quiet and high. “What are you -- are you, like.” He swallows thickly, shaking his head, suddenly frantic. He doesn’t want this -- he refuses to lose him over this. Louis takes a few more steps back, and hits a wall. “What are you trying to get me to do? What the fuck do you want me to say to that, Harry? Are you trying to scare me?"

“I'm not trying to scare you, love," Harry whispers, voice raspy and weak and so low Louis can barely hear him. "I want you to tell me that it's not going to happen. I wanted you to tell me that you're not afraid of me. That you can handle it, because that's what you do. You always keep things together. You tell me I’m being a prick when I need to know that I’m being a prick.”

By the time he’s finished, Harry’s voice has grown so loud he’s practically yelling, making Louis’ skin break out in shivers again. He’s out of his head, trying to keep himself together, but feeling frantic and confused and desperate to just fix things before they get any worse.

"I’m not having doubts about you, alright? And they're not even really doubts about us. It's just me, you know? And with the way you look right now, it's like, you wouldn't look that way if you didn't have at least a shred of doubt that I’ll let you down."

"However I look is because you're making me have doubts right this second, Harry," Louis says, exasperated. "I’m not afraid of you just because you were being a dick to me all day. I was trying to help you, and you ignored me, and I have no problem telling you that you were being a shit to me, because you were." His words tumble out quickly, and by the end of them he sounds and feels strangled, like he can’t get out another word without stopping to swallow and collect himself for a moment.

The thing about hearing Harry say all of this is that they’re all of Louis’ worst fears come to life. He and Harry are so great together, they’ve always just been great together, even when they weren’t actually together, that the idea of them coming apart is so painful and unbearable that Louis fucking freaks out at the smallest hint of it. 

Pushing himself up by both hands, Harry walks over and stands in front of him, keeping a few steps of distance between their bodies. He sways before he steadies, and then eyes Louis. "I'm drunk, alright? I don't know what the fuck I'm on about," he mumbles, staring cautiously at Louis’ face. "I'm not trying to hint at anything."

"You'd be saying this if you weren't drunk," Louis points out, not looking away from Harry’s face. His eyes are red and watery and his cheeks are splotched with pink, and Louis’ heart is breaking. “It’s just like -- I know you're not trying to hint at anything, but it sounds like you're...I don't know, Harry. If you want to make me finish with you, you're going to have to fuck up way more than you have done already," he says, scratching his forehead and then raking his nails back through his hair. "And go ahead and fuck right off if you think I’m sitting around waiting for you to do something bad enough to make me break up with you. You can leave right now if you honestly think that's what i'm doing."

“No.”

“No what?”

“No,” Harry repeats, shaking his head. He takes a step closer to Louis. “I know that’s not what you’re doing. I know you're not looking to just bow out. I'm scared," Harry shrugs. “I'm just really scared of losing you and it being my fault.”

“What reason have I given you to be afraid, though? I just…” Louis stops himself, so frustrated, so blindsided he can’t even continue.

“None, that’s the thing. It’s why I feel so shit about it. But you have to know I don't actually want to make you finish with me, don't you? That’s, like, my biggest fear.”

“Could you just stop--” Louis pushes his hands out and shoves Harry lightly in the chest. “Talking about the end of things?”

He makes to push him again, but Harry’s fingers catch his wrist, digging hard into the soft side before he lets go. “Stop it,” Harry says, his voice stronger now. “It's not like I’m talking about it cause I want there to be an end. That’s the whole thing, innit? I know I've fucked things up before, but I can't with this. Like, I can't.”

“You’re not,” Louis mutters. He feels like he’s on the verge of watching him have a breakdown, or having one himself. “Just shut up, Harry.”

Harry shakes his head; he’s not finished. “You're so special to me, Louis. It's just a massive thing, you know? Because anytime anyone else hurts you, then I know how I feel and how much I want to basically, like, destroy the person. But when I do it to you, I don't know. it's just really heavy." Harry sighs, shifts from one foot to the other. “I’m gonna stop embarrassing myself now.”

They’re both quiet for a moment. Louis lets that sink in, or he tries. He’s not sure why it’s the thing that breaks him, the moment that makes him give up the fight, but it is, so he doesn’t question it.

“It’s not embarrassing,” Louis says quietly, and reaches out to hold onto Harry’s forearm, tugging gently. “Look at me.” It takes a second, but he does. “It’s not.”

“Alright,” Harry breathes, nodding once. “Okay.”

He’s never seen him so close to falling apart. It’s shocking, especially when he’d been so cocky just a half hour before, relentlessly manipulating Louis’ body, so sure of himself. Now that they’re outside of the moment and without distraction, it’s like he’s broken down again and remembering all the fears he’s been trying to blind himself to.

Louis guides him back, pushing him to start walking in the direction of the bed so that he can get Harry stretched out on his back in the center of it. He goes down easily, and Louis crawls up to him on his hands and knees, just hovering over Harry with a safe number of inches between their bodies. Tendrils of his hair fall in his face, brushing over his eyebrows as he looks down at Harry, trying to pick out the right words.

“Tell me you don’t think you’re going to fuck it up with me,” Louis whispers, his voice breaking around the words. He’s always had faith in Harry, but he knows Harry needs to hear it. He’s been conceding for Harry’s benefit all night. 

“Because I don’t think you will, babe,” he continues, murmuring the words so softly that he’s afraid he might have to repeat them. “I know you won’t. Just...don’t push me away, alright?”

Harry’s eyes are glossy when he looks up at him, and Louis swallows around a lump in his throat. The whole night has been intense and unexpectedly weighty, and by now he needs Harry to just believe him so that he can start to fix it. He needs to restore whatever it was that everyone else took away.

“Baby,” Harry whispers back, finally. The term of endearment makes Louis crumple, any further resistance all but gone when Harry brings his hand up to cup around the side of Louis’ face, his thumb dragging inward to brush lightly over the highest point of his cheek. 

“I won’t fuck it up,” he murmurs, and he looks so tired, worn out but determined to make this point as he squeezes the side of Louis’ neck in his palm. “I won’t ruin the best thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s pointless, right? I mean, I always come back to you.”

There’s something in his voice, a recharged quality like he’s started to believe that yeah, I can do this in a way that he’d convinced himself he was incapable of. He’s more himself than he has been all day, saying those words, and Louis feels immediately better. Harry’s hands stroke down from Louis’ face, sliding down around his back instead, pulling him in with a sort of desperation.

And it’s that, he thinks, that makes him finally buckle, because there are points during their arguments where he never, ever thinks he’ll be the one to concede, times when, like earlier tonight, he thought he would be able to just have sex and walk out and deal with his wayward boyfriend the following night -- but there always comes a point when Louis just can’t fathom holding a grudge against someone he loves as much as Harry. It is very plainly unconditional. He just can’t build walls around something so big, around the love he has for him. He doesn’t want to.

“I won’t hurt you,” Harry says, earnest now, tugging Louis on the shoulder like he wants to be held. Louis gives in, lowering himself down and circling both his arms around Harry’s broad back. They squeeze each other tight, warm and still a little drunk, and it’s the sort of embrace he’d wanted from him earlier, the one they skipped in lieu of a half-hearted group hug. 

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” he says softly, shaking his head, because it’s ridiculous to think that Harry won’t ever hurt him again or that he won’t ever do the same at some point, no matter how much he loves to hear him say it, no matter how much he wants to believe it.

“Okay,” Harry answers. It’s mumbled into Louis’ shoulder, and he says it again, clearer this time, hooking his leg around Louis and locking them together. They move to kiss each other at the same time, and it goes on, and it’s reparative and easy, and it feels like a conversation they ought to have had hours before. It’s an apology, and Louis accepts it, holds Harry tight and warm until they’ve fallen onto their sides, their foreheads propped together as they struggle to breathe normally again.

“Love you,” Harry says, and Louis responds with the same, the words barely out of Harry’s mouth before he answers. It’s alright, he thinks, staring back at Harry, who mouth is already cutting into a grin as he pulls Louis into him with a hand on his ass. He doesn’t need a promise, he doesn’t need to hear never again, and he wouldn’t want that; he doesn’t want perfect, anyway. He wants Harry.

**Author's Note:**

> find us on tumblr [here](http://stillbeblue.tumblr.com) (quitter) and [here](http://quitefinished.tumblr.com) (navigator). thanks for reading!


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